


A Slow Descent

by Spork_in_the_Road



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Ginny centric, Implied Sexual Content, Tom is creepy, but very non explicit, i don't really know how to tag this, like hardly even there, really really minor Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spork_in_the_Road/pseuds/Spork_in_the_Road
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Have you missed me, Ginevra?” he whispers one night in the Chamber. She laughs, cold and bitter.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You have not given me the chance, Tom.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Slow Descent

i.  
“You’re lucky to be a live,” the nurse says, but her voice is distant to Ginny’s ears. She’s still in the hospital bed at St. Mungo’s, but she’s sitting up now. She hasn’t been able to do that in days. Everything is looking good, or so the doctors tell her. No permanent damage. 

She almost laughs at that. 

If there is no permanent damage, then why does she see him every night? She relives the past months, long lost memories – those gaps in time she thought she’d never get back – resurfacing until she wakes up, swallowing back the bile in her throat because she’ll take her secrets to her grave. Everyone thinks she’s getting better. She can’t let them know she nearly vomits every time she pictures his face.

The school pays for a special doctor – Harry tells her that the muggles would call him a psychologist – to come see her once a week, even once she returns home. He asks Ginny to tell him everything, even things that don’t seem related to what everyone has taken to calling the incident. He asks her about her feelings, how she was doing in school before the incident. He asks about her friends, her family, all irrelevant things. 

When he finally mentions the Chamber, Ginny tells him what he wants to know. She tells him how she walked to the girls’ bathroom, spoke to the sink just like Tom (she forces herself to call him by his name, at least to the adults) told her. She tells him how Tom appeared before her, and how she promptly fainted.

That last bit is a lie, but no one needs to know that. 

 

ii.  
She remembers everything about the Chamber. 

She remembers the crunch of bones under her feet, the cold tile floor digging into her back, the weight of Tom’s hand around her throat.

The searing heat of his lips, feather light against her cheek. 

She remembers thinking how strange it was that he was so warm. 

 

iii.  
The world is in an uproar, but Ginny Weasley is un-rattled and completely unsurprised. 

Of course he’d be back. 

She wonders at how the Ministry can still pretend he isn’t, especially after Cedric’s death. Especially after Harry’s personal account. Especially after Barty Crouch Jr. – an actual Death Eater – basically confirmed it. 

No one bothers asking her if she’s afraid. They’ve stopped asking her if she’s fine every five minutes, and it seems that most people – her family included – have forgotten just how close she was to dying at the hands of Tom Riddle. 

 

iv.  
She dreams of him again for the first time in two years. She’s back in the Chamber, the cold, wet tiles, pressed against her back. She’s not eleven anymore, though thirteen is hardly better. 

He stands over her, his trademark smirk gracing his lips. His dark hair is combed perfectly, his skin is flawless, his eyes are blue and dark and dangerous. He is supposed to be beautiful. Ginny decides he’s the ugliest thing she’s ever seen.

“You’ve grown, Ginevra,” he says, and his voice is exactly like she remembers it. His smirk curves into a sneer as he gives her a once over. “Not very much, though, by the looks of it.”

She reminds herself that it’s only a dream, even as he leans over her. His hand wraps around her throat, firm but gentle, as if he’s feeling her pulse. The impulse to squirm is there, but she knows she won’t win against him, not even in her head.

“You’re quite the good girl, aren’t you?” he muses when he notices how she struggles to stay still. His grip on her throat tightens, and he chuckles. Chills run down her spine. He sighs after a moment, but doesn’t loosen his grip.

“It’s too early, yet,” he says, and though she doesn’t understand exactly what he means, she knows he won’t be killing her. Not tonight, at least.  
She almost thinks he’ll let her go, but of course, he wouldn’t be Tom if he did that.

She jerks awake, the touch of his lips still tingling on her cheek. In the morning, she covers the finger-shaped bruises on her neck with makeup and tries not to think about what that might mean.

 

v.  
Blinding streams of light flash by her head as she dodges curses left and right. She knows it was stupid, coming to the ministry on this suicide mission to save Sirius. She should have known it was a trap. She came of her own volition, though, and so she does not try to blame anyone but herself for the chaos she’s in now. 

She tells herself that she is doing it for Harry. It’s not to see him. 

There is a wand pointed at her throat, and someone (she cannot see who) has a death grip on her arm. She should be scared.

She’s not.

Adrenaline surges through her veins, heart beating so fast she’d be surprised if the Death Eater behind her can’t feel it. 

Lucius Malfoy is demanding the prophecy, and Ginny knows, logically, that it’s important, but she doesn’t see the point of the whole thing. Not really. It seems silly in the grand scheme of things that a prophecy should matter so much. 

It shatters on the floor, the Order swoops in, there’s a battle. She doesn’t see most of it. She doesn’t see him.

She tells herself she’s not disappointed.

She almost believes herself. 

 

vi.  
Ginny wakes with the lingering taste of Tom’s kiss. She spends the next hour scrubbing her teeth until her gums are raw and her mouth is overwhelmed by a stinging mint flavor. Fresh, purple bruises circle her wrists and dot her hips where his hands had been. 

The dark circles under her eyes are becoming more pronounced, she notes. She thinks she hasn’t slept soundly since before she came to Hogwarts, and especially not since the incident. 

Unbidden, the memories of the Chamber weasel their way to the front of her mind. Not from the incident, though. She thinks of his hands digging into her hips, his lips pressing against her own with bruising force, her fingers running through his silky hair. 

She keeps scrubbing until she spits blood into the sink. The mint is gone now, replaced by something tangy and metallic and not entirely unfamiliar.

 

vii.  
Dumbledore is dead. Harry is gone off to Merlin knows where with Ron and Hermione. Hogwarts is run by Death Eaters. She is supposed to be the resistance. She doesn’t care.

She doesn’t care when the Carrows torture her for being Harry’s friend and Ron’s sister.

She doesn’t care when the Cruciatis curse wracks through her body and leaves her shaking for hours. She looks haggard and broken and dead inside. She almost laughs. She’s been this way for so long, it’s a relief to let it show. 

She doesn’t bother covering the bruises from her dreams anymore. Everyone assumes she got them from detention anyway, if they notice them at all. 

 

viii.  
“Have you missed me, Ginevra?” he whispers one night in the Chamber. She laughs, cold and bitter.

“You have not given me the chance, Tom.”

 

ix.  
She sees him, truly, when he returns with Harry’s body. She runs forward, screaming, and someone (she’s too far gone to know who it is) holds her back. Unable to move, she watches Voldemort.

He’s not her Tom. She can tell in an instant. Aside from the obvious physical differences, he is not too changed. The cold indifference is the same, as is the arrogance. But his eyes pass right through her, and she breathes a sigh of relief.

Voldemort does not know her.

Then Harry rolls to the ground and chaos ensues. 

 

x.  
Her dreams leave no bruises now, though she still wakes in the middle of the night, slips out from beneath Harry’s arms to brush her teeth until she’s certain she might stain the porcelain red. If Harry notices how little she sleeps or how she resists flinching every time he kisses her, he never says anything. 

He thinks their nightmares are the same: flashbacks from the war, scenes of Voldemort coming back to life, the terror of being tortured. Ginny almost laughs. 

She doubts Harry dreams about fucking Tom Riddle.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fanfic -- first published anyway :) Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to comment. Criticism is always welcome.


End file.
